


Even the Devil Can Fall

by LadyReisling



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical, Sickfic, Whump, whumpexchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyReisling/pseuds/LadyReisling
Summary: Taking out the opium-smuggling ring was easy enough, but it has lasting effects for Matt.





	Even the Devil Can Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Whump exchange fic for @disappearinginq over on Tumblr. The prompt was "This is going to hurt, but I need you to stay quiet, okay?" Enjoy!

It was a quiet afternoon at Nelson and Murdock. Matt could feel the watery winter sunlight streaming through the windows as he brushed his sensitive fingers over a brief reprinted in Braille. From the other room, he could hear Karen and Foggy chatting quietly as they looked over a newspaper together. The smell of their lunch takeout--Thai noodles and coconut rice from the place down the street, whose owner had taken to giving them free meals since Nelson and Murdock had settled a dispute with her landlord a few months ago--still hung in the air. Days like today, it was easy to remember why he’d left Landman and Zack to build his own practice. Business was picking up and he had his best friend by his side. It was all that orphan Matt Murdock could ever have asked for, and more. 

Right now though, hearing Karen and Foggy share a laugh outside, it seemed like he was missing out on all the fun of private practice, and besides, he was more than overdue for a break. Rising from his desk, he made his way out to the conference room. 

“Well, look who finally decided to take a break,” Foggy said as he made his way to the empty conference chair to sit down.

“Yeah, we’re not going to court with the Jacobsen case for another month, so I figured I could take five minutes. What are you two up to?” 

“Just reading the paper. You guys want some coffee?” Karen asked.

“Please,” Matt and Foggy responded in unison, and Karen’s chair scraped across the floor. Matt heard her heartbeat recede as she made her way to the coffee pot, then the sound and smell of mugs being filled, creamer and sugar stirred in. It tasted good in the air; Karen’s coffee-making skills had definitely improved. 

“Anything good in the paper?” Matt asked Foggy.  

“Not really. Little piece about opium overdose deaths on the rise in Hell’s Kitchen, but that might be Hell’s Kitchen catching up with the rest of the world. How long has America had an opioid problem, again?” Foggy replied with a hint of sarcasm.

“Right.”

“I hear a ‘but’ in there, Matt.” 

“No, you don’t.”

Before Foggy could reply, Karen returned with the coffee, and the three fell back into easy chatter as they sipped at their cups. Matt filed the opium information away in his brain for later that night and, after a few minutes, he and Foggy were both back at their desks, Karen typing away in the reception area. Soon, he was lost in his own work, and the office melted away as the work absorbed him; sucking him into the thing that Matt Murdock was put on this planet to do. 

Sometime later, he was startled out of his trance by a faint tap on the doorframe, Foggy’s heartbeat filling in its familiar place in his awareness. 

“Matt. It’s Friday. Please tell me you’re not going to spend all night here, working on a case that doesn’t go to court for another month.” 

“Why, what time is it?” 

“Half-past time to hit Josie’s, my friend.”

Matt chuckled. “You’re probably right, but what time is it really?”

“Seven-thirty.” 

“Okay, yeah, it’s time to hit Josie’s. Not for long, though. One round, and then…”

“The night job calls?” 

Matt glared daggers at Foggy, then realized he could no longer sense Karen’s presence in the office. He vaguely remembered her ducking out early, saying something about dinner with Doris. “The night job calls,” he agreed. 

“Matt...Earlier, when I mentioned the opium, you seemed interested. Like, Daredevil-interested. What’s going on? You’re not putting yourself in danger, are you? More than usual, I mean.”

“Probably not. It’s just, I’ve--that is, Daredevil--has been hanging out down by the docks. There’s a smuggling ring operating down there, bringing in opium out of China. I’m--Daredevil--is getting close to taking them down. Few more days, if everything goes well.”

Foggy sighed. “Because it’s Friday, I’m going to ignore that comment and pretend that my partner is just a normal lawyer. Come on, I’ll buy you a whiskey before you have to get ready for the night job if you promise to be careful out there.”

“Always am, Foggy.” Matt grabbed his coat and bag from the back of his chair, picked up his cane, and, linking arms with his best friend, headed for the bar. 

In the end, the Chinese opium smugglers were easy to take out. Three nights of monitor and interrogate, and Daredevil pulled the whole operation apart like cotton candy. It turned out they were only low-level smugglers looking for quick cash. Matt didn’t even sustain any injuries bad enough to need Claire’s assistance, which was a good thing since Claire was away visiting her family. The most dramatic part of the whole thing was when some underling with a dry, hacky cough had taken exception to being shoved up against a wall and spat in Matt’s face while being interrogated. It was more of an annoyance than anything; the bastard couldn’t even get a single sentence out without hacking up a lung. But the bottom line was, as of Monday night, the smugglers were no longer a threat.  

For the rest of the week, his nightly rounds were painfully normal--some minor purse-snatchers and kids getting up to mischief, but otherwise, villainy in Hell’s Kitchen seemed to be at an all-time low. Matt was glad, because by the time he shed the suit, showered, and crawled between his silk sheets in the wee hours of Friday morning, he was unnaturally tired, eyes burning and head throbbing. Besides that, he seemed to have inhaled dust somewhere along the way; there was a tickle in his throat that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he tried to clear it. But exhaustion sucked him under, and he didn’t wake until his alarm went off  the next morning for work. 

It felt like he hadn’t slept at all. His pulse pounded in his temples, and all the usual apartment-building noises were too loud and close. The tickle in his throat had turned to shards of broken glass, and his head spun with every movement or change in elevation. He skipped shaving in deference to the tremors in his hands, brushed his teeth, pulled on a suit, and headed for the office, fighting nausea as the ride down the elevator played havoc with his shaky equilibrium. 

The street was worse: a vortex of sounds and smells that tortured him in a way he hadn’t experienced since those early days in the hospital right after he’d lost his sight. The blessed office-quiet of Nelson and Murdock was a welcome relief, although the trip up the stairs stole his breath and made his head hurt even more. It was a good thing Karen and Foggy hadn’t arrived yet, he thought as he sank onto the couch in his office to catch his breath. It was freezing, but he could feel sweat trickling down his back from the climb. He closed his eyes, tried to meditate long enough to slow his heart and catch his breath, but fatigue was was more powerful than his ability to meditate, soaking him up in velvety blackness.  

“Matt…” Someone was shaking his shoulder. “Matty?” The voice sounded far away. With effort, he swam toward consciousness. 

“Mnngh,” he managed, but his throat screamed in protest and he fell silent.

“Matt, you with me, buddy?”  

He was fully aware now and wished he weren’t, his senses an overloaded mess, and when he tried to speak again, a coughing fit doubled him over. He clenched his fists into his pant legs, trying to stop it, felt Foggy’s hand on his back, the only anchor to reality. He clung to that feeling, finally gaining a tenuous grasp on both consciousness and oxygen. 

“F-Foggy? ...Wha…” His voice quit and he fell silent.  

“Christ, Matt, you’re burning up.” Foggy’s hand was freezing on his face.

“...Think I got a cold…” he whispered thickly.

“I think you got more than that, buddy.” 

He drifted out again, woke some indeterminate amount of time later as Foggy shook his shoulder and tugged on his hand. “Come on, Matty. I called a cab and I’m taking you home. Bed rest and chicken soup for you.”

Matt found he didn’t have the strength to argue. As it turned out, he didn’t have the strength to do much of anything. He leaned on Foggy, letting his best friend take the vast majority of his weight as they stumbled down the stairs. The walk set him coughing again, spasms that wouldn’t stop no matter how hard he tried, joining forces with way too many stimuli outside, smells making him gag, sounds swirling around him in a terrifying, confusing cloud. He stumbled and would have fallen if not for Foggy’s steadying hand, and then they crawled into the back of the cab and everything became a blur. 

He was dimly aware of arriving home, of the stomach-churning ride back upstairs, Foggy helping him change into pajamas, crawling between the soft, cool sheets of his bed. Foggy’s familiar touch burn-froze on his cheek again, a thermometer probed into his mouth. He slept, woke, slept again, waking each time to a haze of confusion and the ever-present, painful coughing. Foggy was always there, his heartbeat steady in the chair beside the bed, his hands freezing on Matt’s bare skin, spooning salty broth down Matt’s sore throat, wiping his face when the coughing brought it all back up again. Time lost all meaning. 

When he surfaced again, it was because someone had clamped his chest and throat in an iron vise. Every breath was torture and there was no oxygen in the air. It was worse than the time his lung had collapsed at Claire’s and he thrashed and gasped, fighting to breathe. Hands tried to restrain him and he threw them off, would have screamed, but it required too much air, too much energy.

There were voices, unfamiliar heartbeats too close. His mind screamed  _ danger _ , _ danger _ ,  _ danger _ , and he fought off unfamiliar touches, still struggling to breathe. Then Foggy’s voice was in his ear, calm despite the underlying terror: “Matt, Matt, it’s okay. I’ve got you. The medics are here. Let them help you.”

The renewed awareness of Foggy’s presence grounded him a little, then there was the prick of a needle in the back of his hand, a rush of something cool in his vein, and a gentle, firm hand held him down.

“Mr. Murdock? I’m here to help you breathe. This is going to hurt, but I need you to stay quiet, okay? Just try to lie still and it will be quick.”

He processed the words, somehow,  and managed what he thought might have been a nod. Then there was excruciating, unimaginable pain in his throat, and blackness swallowed him whole. 

The first thing he became aware of was the smell. Antiseptic, sweat, industrial-strength cleaners. Sounds crept in next--whooshing, humming, a steady beeping.  _ Hospital _ . He’d have panicked, but his mind was still too hazy to take it all in, and around the edges of his fuzzy consciousness, there was the heartbeat that was as much a part of him as his own soul. Foggy was here, sleeping close by. The knowledge was soothing enough to keep the panic at bay and pull him back into oblivion. 

The next time he came into awareness, it was to the worst sore throat he ever could have imagined. Something pressed into his nose, and he moved a hand to bat it away, but a soft hand caught his wrist and held it back.  

“Oxygen, Matty. Don’t move that; you’re going to need it for a while longer.”

“Fog…” he tried for words, but his throat hurt too much. 

“Yeah, Matt. I’m right here. Here, try a little water.” A straw pressed against his lips, and he took a couple painful swallows. It hurt, but took the dry, fuzzy coat out of his mouth, which felt miraculous. 

“What day is it?” he asked hoarsely when Foggy took the cup away. 

“Sunday.”

“I was out the whole weekend?”  

There was a long pause, and Foggy took a shuddering breath. “No, Matt. You were out a whole week. Nine days, to be exact. Four at your place, five here.”

“Had a cold…”

“You had SARS, Matty. You had fucking SARS. I called the medics when you damn near stopped breathing at your place. You’ve been intubated--that’s why your throat’s so sore. They’ve been flooding your system with drugs since Tuesday afternoon. How the hell did you get SARS?”

It took Matt several minutes to wrap his head around this. Nine days gone. “Last week...one of the smugglers...had a cough. He coughed on me.”

“Yeah, well, he damn near killed you. Don’t do that to me again, huh?”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Good. You’re going to have to explain this one to Claire, too. She’s back, and she’s mad as hell. You have a few hours to figure that one out. She’ll be your night nurse later.”

Matt quirked a smile. “Okay. Thanks for the warning.”

“Go back to sleep now. I’ll stay with you.”

“Thanks, Foggy. For everything.” Matt whispered, closing his eyes again. If Foggy answered, Matt didn’t register it. He drifted off to the feeling of safety, the weight of Foggy’s hand on his. 

**Author's Note:**

> Mil gracias to my wonderful beta, Marie (Tumblr @the-wandering-whumper, go check her out.) 
> 
> Everything I know about SARS I learned from the CDC's website. I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @librarified2004--come over and say hi! Thanks so much for reading--kudos are great, comments are GOLD.


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